


Afterlife in a Northern Town

by simplyprologue



Series: Afterlife in a Northern Town [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut, Shower Sex, alaska ever after, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long day at work, it takes a little bit of persuasion on Sansa's behalf to get her husband to clean up. Modern!AU!Alaska!SanSan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Build Up...

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Still not mine. And sorry, GRRM, think what you will but you can't sue me for this.

“Come to bed.” He watches her bring the razor slowly up the slender curve of her calf, admiring the line of her leg from his position, sprawled out on his back on their bed.   
  
  
She laughs, a light, pleasant sound, crinkling her nose at him before rinsing the razor under the tap. “No, you’re all sweaty and dirty. You need a shower, my love.”  
  
  
He grunts in response, eyes tracing her movements as she drags the razor up her leg, again, and again, wiggling her toes against the tiny sink in their bathroom. Sansa wears scant but one of Sandor’s plaid flannel shirts, which hangs loosely on her thin frame and falls to mid-thigh. But it’s one of his old ones, the cotton worn and almost see-through; he can see the outline of her thighs and the tips of her pert nipples poking through.   
  
  
He’d much prefer to watch her do this, shave with her legs all on display for him, the thatch of auburn hair at the cusp of her thighs just visible from this angle. She giggles, shaking her head. “Don’t make me go over there. I’ll strip you and push you into the shower myself, if you think I’ll let you—”  
  
  
“I’ll oblige to the stripping, but little bird, do you really think you could push me anywhere?” He smirks, and barks a laugh when she rolls her eyes at him. He leers at her as she wipes down her leg with a washcloth, wishing to do nothing more than feel her smooth skin under his working man’s hands, taste her clean skin after a day in the lumber yard, breathe in the scent of her plain soap and the lotion lathered on to keep her skin from cracking. “Come fuck me, Mrs. Clegane.”   
  
  
“I’ve just gotten clean. Come shower, Mr. Clegane.” She answers, tossing her damp, wavy hair over her shoulder before running her hands down over the pale, unblemished skin of her legs, checking them over for any missed areas.  
  
  
“And then you’ll think about getting dirty with me again?” He sounds vaguely hopeful, smiling wryly when Sansa lowers her leg from the rim of the sink, setting it on the ground. She starts to unbutton the shirt from the bottom up, pulling up the hem to reveal the triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs. He cocks a brow at her. “Or maybe you’ll get clean with me?”  
  
  
She smiles, fingers lingering over the button at level with her breasts. He scowls when she refuses to part the fabric, instead leaning back against the sink, spreading her legs. The scowl slides straight off his face when her hands drift down her body, one casting off to brace herself against the sink’s ledge, the other searching out her cunt.   
  
  
“Are you going to get up like a good boy?” she asks coyly, rubbing her clit before plunging two fingers into herself, moaning louder than necessary and rolling her hips into her hand, flexing her dainty wrist as she moves the digits in and out. “Or am I just going to have to take care of myself?”   
  
  
“Oh, I’ll take care of you real good,” he mutters, rolling off the bed and moving quickly inside their cramped bathroom, hoisting Sansa up onto the sink, nipping at her neck before she can even extricate her fingers from her wet slit. Licking his way over the thin white skin of her neck, he murmurs, “No, don’t move ‘em,” when she tries to pull her fingers out from her pussy.  
  
  
Reaching between them, he takes a firm grasp of her wrist, holding it in place before sliding his hand over hers, thrusts his index finger in with her own and grinds his thumb against her slippery nub. He grins against her lips when he feels a gush of wetness against his hand, and grins even harder when she grabs the back of his head, fingers clutching at his straight black hair. She sucks his lower lip between his teeth before wresting her mouth against his, thrusting her tongue into his mouth in counterpoint to their hands.   
  
  
Their hands fight over the last button on her shirt, his fingers eventually taking hold of the damned thing. Ripping the button off the article of clothing before pushing it off her shoulders, he moans into her mouth when she pushes her bare chest up against him.   
  
  
Her nipples are so hard that he can feel it through his shirt. He can hear her muttering something against his lips, and it takes him a few moments to realize that she’s repeating  _take this off_ , again and again, unoccupied hand tearing his shirt and tee out from his jeans. The soft flannel catches under the nails of her free hand when she wrenches her fingers out of her cunt, deftly undoing the buttons and pushing the shirt off of Sandor’s broad shoulders, whimpering at the feel of his sculpted muscles under her palms.  
  
  
Pushing another finger into her in absence of her own, Sandor thrusts his hand harder against her, palm grinding against her clit, moving to nibble his way down her defined jaw as she reaches down to pull his plain white t-shirt over his head. After removing the garment with as little separation as possible, Sandor takes the opportunity and grabs her arousal-slicked fingers and bringing them to his mouth, growling as he sucks Sansa’s juices off her own fingers.   
  
  
Their eyes connect—blue and grey, both dusky with need—and Sansa feels a sudden flash of heat wash over her before her eyes rolls back into her head, her world narrowing to his fingers in her pussy and the suck of his mouth, from the smooth side of his lips to the rough, encasing her own fingers as his tongue seeks every trace of her flavor from them.   
  
  
“Oh God,” she moans, hips jutting forward and shoulders pushing back against the wall, her sweat-slick back sliding on the mirror. He laughs, taking her fingers from his mouth and places them on her nipple, silently encouraging her to play with the peaked nub.  
  
  
Sandor groans when actually she does so, using both hands to cup her breasts before rolling her nipples between her long, thin fingers. She smirks at him, forcefully working her hips against his hand, gasping when he extracts his fingers, but her expression of discontent quickly blooms into one of lust as he drops to his knees in front of her, tossing her thighs up on top of his broad shoulders.   
  
  
“Fucking hell, woman,” Sandor says, spreading her thighs, running his large, rough hands up the satiny expanse of her legs. “I’ve been thinking about this,” he mouths the white inside of her thigh, tongue riding along the smooth flesh, “all,” he nips at it, and then draws the skin into his mouth, sucking hard before releasing it, grinning at the red ring he leaves behind, “fucking,” he smooths his fingers up to her center, parting her lower lips, which are red and swollen and glistening with arousal, “day.”   
  
  
Sansa squirms above him, one of her nimble feet working up and down his strong back. Slowly—ever so slowly—Sandor lowers his head and laps against her clit, humming tunelessly against her sensitive nub just to hear her mewl in response, to watch her throw her head back, her body one long line of pale skin and womanly curves. The lines of her throat quiver as she swallows hard, muscles shifting under skin as she lets out a pleading moan.  
  
  
“Sandor…”   
  
  
“Yes, Sansa?” He mercilessly rubs her clit between his thumb and index finger, bending to trace her opening with his tongue, smirking against her sopping cunt when she keens in response, throws her hips against his face. He traces her slit with his tongue, savoring a new wave of wetness against his mouth. “What was that, little bird?”  
  
  
“Sandor…” She hits him with her foot, more than a little indignant. His eyes flicker up to meet hers, and his grey eyes darken in lust at the sight of her hair, curling and still damp against her shower-fresh skin, a deep flush blooming across her cheeks and chest, her rosy nipples standing at attention. She whimpers when his grey eyes lock on hers, biting her lip to suppress the oncoming orgasm.   
  
  
“Come for me, Sansa,” he murmurs against her flesh, panting against her inner thigh. He loops one arm around her thigh, locking her to his shoulder, ignoring the hard tile floor against his tired knees. He moves his other hand up against her center, eyes still on hers as he brushes his fingers down her slit before working two back inside of her, stretching her with infinitesimal slowness before crooking his fingers against the small, rough patch of skin inside of her. “Little bird, I want to feel come around my fingers.”  
  
  
“Not—yet,” she gasps, reaching down to grasp his hair at the roots. “Too soon, too soon—oh God, so good.”   
  
  
Biting at the inside of her thighs, he laughs, working his fingers faster and faster inside her.   
  
  
“Not—funny,” she chokes, clutching his head fast against her, face flushed and a thin film of sweat breaking out over her body.  
  
  
“You’re getting all sweaty, little bird,” he rasps before flicking his tongue over her red, swollen clit over and over and over again, until her eyes roll back into her head again, mouth forming a red-rimmed ‘O’ when he spreads his fingers wider. His cock jumps when her back arches against the wall, the fine muscles of her neck moving around a choked-down scream that instead comes up as a sob.  
  
  
“Your fault,” she cries, when she regains speech, pushing his head harder against her. “Oh God, oh God, Oh God Sandor—“   
  
  
“My fault,” he says, voice muffled against her. “You’re the one who—”  
  
  
“Oh shut up and make me come,” she demands, mouth gaping as her breathing becomes torn, ragged. He can feel her inner muscles begin to spasm, clenching down on his fingers at random intervals.  
  
  
Sandor immediately takes her clit in his mouth again, sucking relentlessly, fingers working in counterpoint to his mouth, until he can hear her breathing stutter, and the only thing she can do is inhale large gulps of air and moan helplessly on the exhale. Only then does he still his hand, the pads of his fingers caressing that spot inside of her, clit throbbing between his lips—  
  
  
He moans with her when he feels her cunt contract around his fingers, he begins to thrust the digits in and out of her again, riding out the orgasm with her, her thighs tight around his ears and cunt against his lips. God, what was heaven the feeling of his wife’s body wrapped around him like this?  
  
  
Working her until her moans shudder at last into sighs, he pulls his mouth from her when she stills at last, peering up at her blue eyes, slitted open, content and sated.   
  
  
He grins wryly, fingers digging purposefully into her thighs as he removes them from his shoulders. Her fingers still tight in his hair, she pulls him up the length of her body, sighing at the slide of skin against skin, the weight of his bare chest against her own, nipples rubbing against the coarse hairs on his chest.   
  
  
She pulls him in for a kiss, stroking the sides of his face with the backs of her dainty fingers, no longer flinching at the feeling of scar tissue under her skin—at the harsh ridges, the tough, twisted skin. Their scars are mementos of victories—proof that they have faced life and come out the other side the victors. She has scars now too, not all on the outside, but represented in their life by the orange prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet and the nights when she wakes up screaming and has to flee outside into the cold and knee-deep snow drifts to escape her memories.   
  
  
They are far away from that now—but all of her family is gone, her father executed for false treason and her mother and brothers burned along with her childhood home, arson, her sister gone without a trace. They may have left the conspiracy and gossip behind in DC, but it has not left them. But moments like this—in each other’s arms, knocking the past from their minds until all that is left is them, and what they have, and all their fighting and struggles and lies and crimes can be laid down and they know what remains is love—  
  
  
Sansa hums contentedly against his lips, opening her eyes. So blue, he thinks, and happy, and carefree. He knows he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to keep them that way, and will inevitably fail at times. But he’ll never tire of it.  
  
  
Her hands slide down from his hair, curling under his shoulders, thumb stroking hard lines of muscle, making them tense under her questing fingers. She can taste herself on his mouth, even though their kiss isn’t quite a kiss, merely the meeting of lips like a meeting of minds, of souls. They both try not to think of the odds of them having gotten here, to this point, when death was chasing them at every corner.   
  
  
He chuckles against her mouth, hands tracing the curve of her hips, up her waist, moving inwards to cradle her breasts in his palms. Moving his mouth along the line of her jaw, he licks the salt from her skin, before taking the lobe of her ear between his teeth, tugging on it gently when he feels her breasts swell and nipples harden against his hands again.   
  
  
“You’re all sweaty,” he says around a mouthful of her skin. “You need a shower.”   
  
  
Sansa giggles, locking her legs around his waist, hands moving to undo the button of his jeans, using her feet to push them and his boxers to the ground before pulling his hips flush against her own.   
  
  
This time it’s Sandor who grabs her hair, burying his face in the wild auburn curls, erect cock brushing against her pussy when she jerks his hips into the cradle of hers. Their hips meet again, starting a sloppy, slow grind, Sansa’s whimpers driving him on, the wetness on her thighs and the residual taste of her in his mouth making him so ridiculously hard—  
  
  
Reaching under her to grab her round, perfect ass, Sandor lifts her up off the sink, kicking off his pants into a puddle on the floor. Moaning as her arms lock around his neck, he slowly moves them into the shower, staggeringly slow, mind fogging at the feeling of the head of his cock teasing the slick skin of her cunt.   
  
  
He slams her into shower wall, feeling her shiver under his hands as her back hits the cool tile, mouth hot against his in such a wonderful contradiction. Palming his cock, he tries to adjust the angle so he can thrust up easily into her, but groans painfully as she slides down his body, placing a hand on his chest to push him away from her.   
  
  
Confused, and more than a little lust-drugged, he backs up into the corner as she blindly turns the water on; eyes closed and mouth chasing his.   
  
  
“You’re filthy,” she mutters, barely audible over the sudden rush of water against their bodies. She turns him around so it hits his back, hot after a long day of work; it’s like heaven like this, hot shower at his back and a warm, willing wife at his front, her hand chasing the droplets of water to his cock, hands slowly working him over.   
  
  
She bats his hand away when his fingers move to enter her again, dropping to her knees below him, grabbing the soap on the way down, lips haphazardly meeting the scars that litter his war-honed body.   
  
  
“Honestly,” she tells him, “I’ll have to change the sheets before we go to bed.”   
  
  
He barks a laugh, gathering her hair in his hands as she sweeps the bar over his thighs, and then down, massaging the thick, corded muscles in her surprisingly strong hands. Nuzzling his erection with her open mouth, Sandor has to restrain himself from moving his hips forward and shoving his cock into her mouth then and there. Instead, his hands scramble for a hold on her shoulders, his back landing heavily against the wall for support.   
  
  
Hands sliding up and around, Sansa grabs his ass in her hands, tongue tracing the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, pressing lightly against it, mouth moving up to take just the head of it into her mouth. Suckling lightly, she hums when he moans, fingers frantically tightening in her long locks. She lets him slip free, hips rocking into air, searching for her.   
  
  
“Tease,” he hisses, tugging purposefully on her hair when she returns to soaping up his legs, his abdomen.   
  
  
“Filthy man,” she responds, smiling devilishly up at him, hair wet again, skin flushed from arousal and the steam pervading the small shower, all clean and pink on her knees before him. The cold evaporates around them, disappearing as quickly as the world outside the small Alaskan town they have taken refuge in.   
  
  
She shifts her body forward again, taking him back into her mouth. His last fleeting thought is that she’s just as filthy as he is, before he can only process the words  _Oh God, Sansa_ , before his little bird’s hand encases the root of his cock, squeezing him tightly in her grasp, and begins to lave at the heated skin of the head with her tongue, and then long sweeps along the sides, before returning to head with swirling licks and flicks along the slit at the top.   
  
  
Sandor fists his hands against her scalp, biting his tongue as she continues to tease him, licking and kissing and pointedly ignoring the urgent press of his hips.  
  
  
“Sansa… GodpleaseSansa, you can’t just—fuck, little bird, fuck…”   
  
  
He throws his head back, hitting it against the wall, a rush of water suddenly spraying down his front, only serving to further spark the fire building in his groin. He looks down at her, annoyance fading at the dark, lusty look in her eyes as she gradually takes his erection into her mouth, before shifting up on her knees to encase him in her breasts, wet and slippery and weighted down by her renewed arousal.   
  
  
“Fuck, Sansa,” he moans, eyes bulging at the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of the warm press of her tits.   
  
  
She bends her head to swallow the tip as it pushes through, smirking. “When I’m done with you, you won’t be able to. Not for a while, anyway.”   
  
  
He moans helplessly, low and desperate, echoing against the tile and through the steam as her hands drifted towards her nipples, rubbing them as she continues to fuck him with her tits, his hips working in union with her efforts, trying to stave off his orgasm and yet so keen to just keep feeling this, to keep the delicious pressure building in his balls.   
  
  
Letting his cock slap up against his stomach, Sansa pushes herself further on her knees, suddenly grabbing at his member with both hands and sinking him into her mouth, taking as much of his length as she can before relaxing her throat to take even more.   
  
  
“Shit,” he gasps, trying not to close his eyes. “Shit, Sansa. Take it all, woman, please.”   
  
  
She works him with long, deep strokes of her mouth, right hand twisting at his base as her left moves to cradle his balls. She rolls them in small circles before tracing them with the undersides of her nails, until his thighs shake and toes curl uselessly against the smooth shower floor.   
  
  
Looking up at him, she sucks hard, hollowing out her cheeks as she pulls off of him steadily, lips lingering over the tip before surging back onto him mercilessly, hands digging into the backs of his thighs, swallowing him when the head of his cock reached the back of her throat. Fighting for control, Sandor tightens his grip in her hair, grunting as he pulls her off of him, hands grabbing at her slicked skin as he pulls her up his body, hands locking around her waist, he turns her and pushing her up against the wall, putting her shapely ass on display. She braces herself, fingers splaying against the tile.   
  
  
Sandor grabs her hips tightly, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise, and enters her with one long thrust. 


	2. ...and the execution.

They both cry out. Sansa tilts her head forward, forehead resting against the wall, panting as he stills, his enormous cock filling her. She fits around him so tightly, like a satin glove—it’s a perfect fit, perfect and she squeezes her muscles around him, grinding her ass back against his groin. He groans in response, clutching her hips even tighter, grinding into her.   
  
  
“Gonna kill me, little bird.”   
  
  
She snorts, spreading her legs wider. She doesn’t often let him take her like this—doesn’t like to feel prone, even with him, doesn’t like being unable to see his face during sex, doesn’t like not being able to give much back, to read him. But  _he_  likes it like this, for the obvious reasons. And honestly, it is easiest for the shower.  
  
  
She rolls her hips back against him, partly to punish him for not moving, partly to feel his cock stretch her inside even further—she shivers as she feels the head of him push up her cervix, bottoming out inside of her.   
  
  
He gasps, bending over her to rest his forehead between her shoulder blades. “ _Fuck_ .”  
  
  
“Hurry up, soldier,” she teases, jerking her hips back against him.   
  
  
He moans, fighting to quell the surging pressure in his groin. “Sansa…”   
  
  
Collecting the fraying threads of his control, he straightens himself, sliding his hands up and down her sides, palms coming around to firmly grip her breasts, tugging at her nipples a little too roughly. She moans, covering one of his hands with her own, pressing it harder against her. Nosing the wet rope of her hair aside, he breathes her in deeply before sinking his teeth into the juncture of her neck and shoulder.   
  
  
She shrieks, her cunt clenching down on him, hips rocking back in a series of waves as he sucks down harder and harder on her pale skin, all lips and teeth against her sensitive skin, working his hips against her as she moves with him.   
  
  
Sansa  _really, really_  likes it when he marks her, even if she can’t really leave the house for anyone to see it. The townspeople are wonderful, really, and keep their secret with silent recognition, but still, people do come through for a cup of coffee at the diner before they’re on their way, or to get gas at the station, or buy soda at the convenience store, and their faces are just too well-known to risk it. But still, to know she’s his and his alone after all they’ve been through, after Joffrey and the Lannisters—  
  
  
And to know he only does this because it’s what she wants, not just what  _he_  wants—  
  
  
His hands slide back down to her waist, dig into the skin there for a moment, a pause before following the water droplets down to her hips, her ass, his mouth moving to bite down further along her shoulder. He groans, her skin in his teeth, as his thrusts become longer, deeper, and she works with him, moans growing louder and louder.   
  
  
She mewls when his nails bite into her ass, scratching along the muscle, the paradoxically firm and soft flesh.   
  
  
“Do it,” she moans, throwing her hips back against him with more force. He grunts in her ear, hips starting to pound into her. She’s pushed up onto her toes with each thrust, nails trying to find a hold in the grout between the tiles, the complete lack of control—the surrender, which she gives freely because he does not take it—almost dizzying. She screams at the first smack of his hand against her ass, and she knows he’s only using the barest fraction of his strength.  
  
  
“Again,” she whimpers, pressing her body up and against him, reveling the feeling of his moist breath against her neck. She feels his tongue flick out to taste the straining tendon. “Harder.”  
  
  
She turns her head to meet his lips. They kiss and it sets her body on fire even more—the heat from the shower, the nerves set ablaze under the second slap of his hand against her ass, his hand creeping into her hair, wrapping it around his palm, tugging with every thrust, each harder than the last, head of his cock  _lancing_  that spot inside of her before bottoming out completely.  
  
  
Their mouths meet, tongues hungry for collaboration as he takes her faster and faster and harder, hand coming down against her over and over. At last, she pulls her mouth from his.  
  
  
“Oh, God,  _Sandor_ ,” she breathes, mouth hanging open with desperate gasps, feeling her release running towards her headlong.   
  
  
He pulls back, watches, mesmerized by the sight of her ass meeting his hips, the movement echoing up her frame, down her legs. He palms her ass, thumb brushing over the vibrant red mark his machinations have left behind. It’ll bruise, as will the welts at her neck.   
  
  
“Damn straight,” he growls, hands warm and wet as he gives her thighs a squeeze before circling in towards her clit. She moans, shuddering—so  _close_  to shattering—when his fingers find the swollen bundle of nerves. His fingers read her like they have hundreds of times before, working her as his cock slides home through her, to her.   
  
  
Sansa whimpers at the slow build, at every upward thrust he gives her, pushing her up onto her toes, pinning her to the wall, each hollow movement she feels when he pulls away.   
  
  
“That’s it,” he says, in that low, intimate voice he reserves for her, for moments like this. “Come for me, Sansa. I wanna feel your pussy when you come around me.”   
  
  
Her eyes roll back into her head again, lip curling, nose wrinkling as he hits bottom again and again and again each time with building force, pulling out almost all the way and she can feel the head of his cock teasing the thick ring of muscle at her opening before slamming back into her, fingers moving unforgivingly on her clit, and everything is liquid—his fingers working her, the air around them, inside of her, the water spraying on their backs, dripping down their legs, her legs themselves—  
  
  
She grits her teeth as she comes with a sharp cry, a sound that is pointed, and almost like a scream. Bucking her hips back into him with all her might, he locks his arms around her, anchoring her to him as she loses control again. He catches her and won’t let her go, fingers still circling her clit, hips pushing against hers.   
  
  
“That’s it,” he moans in her ear. She whimpers in response, her release rippling through her with every slight movement of his cock inside her, the feeling almost too much. “God, Sansa, do you know what it does to me when you come?”   
  
  
“Glad,” she gasps, eyes squeezed tightly shut, forehead pressed against the cool tile. “Glad to be of service,  _sweetheart_ .”  
  
  
He chuckles, the sound reverberating through his large frame as he smooths his hands up and down her belly, bringing her down. “Nah, I like it when you come for other reasons, too."   
  
  
He pulls her up to rest against his chest, supporting her weight when her thighs shake and her knees threaten to give out. She sighs, arms resting over his around her waist, head lolling back against him. “Good to hear.”   
  
  
Her feet can barely reach the floor like this, him being so much taller than her, and it isn’t long until he slips out of her and places her down on the floor, turns her easily in his arms. Sansa moves to wrap her arms around his neck, and he lifts her against him as if she is weightless, humming appreciatively when she wraps her legs around him. Sandor leans against the back of the small shower stall, allowing the hot water run down her back, calm her down.   
  
  
Sansa sighs, planting small kisses along his shoulders and his chest, sucking the water off his skin. Chasing one droplet down from his chin to the hollow between his neck and his collarbone, she draws the skin into her mouth, marking him in turn. “Mine,” she whispers against his scarred flesh, tongue tracing the one of the many he received the night they escaped from the White House, from the Lannisters.   
  
  
Cersei had held a knife to her throat, and he had torn it away with his bare hand.   
  
  
“Mine,” she repeats, louder, squeezing the fingers of her left hand together just to feel the comforting outline of her wedding band.   
  
  
“And mine,” Sandor answers, hoisting her tighter against him for a slicker fit, kissing her forehead.   
  
  
She nods, moving so their mouths can slant together, and she is suddenly all too aware of his erection brushing along her slit. Rolling her hips against him to signify readiness, he moans his thanks into her mouth before turning them again, pushing her up against the wall.  
  
  
“Ready?” he asks, resting his forehead against hers.   
  
  
Twice for her, and  _good God his patience,_ she thinks, nodding, eyes unable to focus on his face so close, her fingers reaching up to tangle in his longish wet hair. She moans, low and helpless as he breaches her again in slow increments, and finds her so incredibly wet from her two orgasms.   
  
  
“So good,” he moans into her neck, burying his face in her hair.   
  
  
“Yeah,” she agrees, feeling her arousal begin to build for a blessed third time as his pelvis rocks against hers, the curls around the base of his cock teasing her sensitized clit. “It’s good.”  
  
  
She pulls his face to hers, nibbling on his lower lip as she settles around him, hitching her legs higher around him. “Your turn,” she whispers against his lips.  
  
  
“Fuck me,” she orders, breathing the words into his mouth, watching his eyes go wide. “Fuck me as hard as you can.”   
  
  
As Sandor bucks his hips into her, he silently thanks whatever deity is listening, no matter whether or not he actually  _believes_  in any of them, for the pleasure of having this gorgeous creature wrapped tightly around him in every way imaginable, moaning and begging for his touch and having already come twice for him tonight. He doesn’t give a fuck whether they exist or not, just that she calls out to God when she rides him is enough to earn his eternal gratitude.  
  
  
He bites at her neck, grunting her name with every piston of his hips into her wet grip, water pouring down over both of them, each fumbling to maintain their hold on the other. His thrusts quickly grow erratic as she answers him with his own name, wildly urging him on. She unwraps one leg from his and braces it on the opposite wall, thrusting back against him in return, the leverage only accelerating their rhythm.   
  
  
He can feel her body begin to tense again, and rolls his hips up into her groin, hoping to put pressure on her clit.  
  
  
“Fuck, holy God yes, just like  _that_ ,” she cries into his neck before banging her head back against the wall once, twice, three times. “Likethatlikethat _likethat_ —“  
  
  
“Ah, f _uck_ ,” he hisses, feeling the water suddenly turn ice cold against his back, making him shiver for an entirely unacceptable reason. Sansa looks too wrapped up in the movement of their hips to notice, blearily blinking her eyes open when he wrenches her away from the wall, throws the shower curtain open, and in three long strides has them at the foot of the bed—and pins her down onto it.   
  
  
“Nyah—babe, ah,” she gives a strangled moan when he grinds his hips into hers, before leaning back onto his haunches to take her legs, long and satiny and sex-loosened, and hitches them over his shoulders before leaning down again, taking her hands in his and securing them above her head, making her torso and arms one long line. “Fuck, oh—God, fuckfuckfuck.”  
  
  
He likes making her say  _fuck_ , along with making her do other things.  
  
  
Scrambling for a pillow, he finds one and pulls it under her hips, and changing the angle without even moving he makes her arch her back, makes her gasp. Sandor pushes himself up onto his knees, turning his head to bite at her ankle before beginning to pound into her again, hands moving to support her lower back when she wrenches her wrists out of his grasp to clutch his shoulders.  
  
  
Encouraging him with plaintive gasps, urging him to go deeper, to go harder, right there— _oh fuck Sandor, there, right there_ —the laughing from earlier gone, she begins to cry out, moans turning into sobbing, crying, tears escaping as he coaxes her higher and higher, fingers a blur over her clit, watching her face as she bites her lip until it bleeds, the whites of her eyes bright and fingers scratching into his back until he’s sure that he’s bleeding, but it doesn’t matter because—  
  
  
Sansa shatters around him, convulsing under him as her orgasm is wrenched from her with a scream that builds from her chest and echoes in their darkened bedroom. Sandor follows her with a yell, baring his teeth as he feels her quake beneath and around him, her cunt milking his cock for all its worth, and he grows harder and harder until he feels release bubble and burst inside of him, deep in his groin, spilling himself deep inside of her.  
  
  
“Sansa,” he moans, holding the last ‘a’ in his mouth, hips stuttering, all sense of rhythm stolen from them; they writhe and jerk on top of the duvet, wet and skin so hot and slick against each other. He turns them on their sides as the strength leaves his arms, managing to get her legs off his shoulders before collapsing.   
  
  
Sansa hikes her leg up around his waist, continuing to rock against him, riding out her orgasm. Sandor wraps his arms tightly around her, panting into her hair, watching with rapt fascination as her cheeks twitch, her eyes moving rapidly under the lids, color painted high on the delicate bones of her face.   
  
  
She moans, low and in the clear, clenching around him  _still_ , and he massages the nodes of her spine as her breathing begins to even out, shivering against his much larger frame. Nestling in closer, she pushes her face into his neck, pressing light kisses whatever skin she finds beneath her lips.   
  
  
“Love you,” she murmurs, trying to get even closer still, to climb into his skin.   
  
  
“Love you too, little bird.” He feels sleep trying to claim him, fights it off long enough drag himself out of bed, smile softly when Sansa protests the loss of his body around her, and stumble back to the bathroom to turn the now-cold shower off and grab one of their towels, quickly drying himself off. He drops it on the floor before taking the dry one left on the rack and climbs back into bed, tenderly drying Sansa before wiping off the evidence of their lovemaking from her thighs.  
  
  
He tosses the towel on the floor to pick up in the morning, lies under the sheets, and pulls her to him again, wrapping himself around her tiny frame, burrowing into her wet hair.   
  
  
The dreams do not come to them that night. 


	3. ...and the aftermath

Sansa is shaken awake some hours later, blearily opening her eyes to find her husband looking down at her with a faintly worried expression on his face. She only sleeps on his side of the bed when he’s not there when she needs him, and she’s donned one of his flannel shirts from the hamper to wear.   
  
  
“You feeling alright?” he asks gruffly, sitting down as lightly as he can on the bedside. “It’s almost seven.”  
  
  
 _Shit_ , she thinks, fumbling for the clock on the bedside before balefully staring at the cell phone and the alarm that clearly didn’t wake her before Sandor came home.   
  
  
“Yeah,” Sansa says, rubbing her eyes, frowning at the smear of black—eyeliner and mascara—smudging across back of her hands. Oh god, she really slept for five hours? She just mean to take a short nap—but she had been so exhausted after the morning, and then after she had taken the tests, and stressing about what Sandor would think, they hadn’t planned on it, not really… “Yeah, I’m just tired.”   
  
  
He frowns down at her, bringing one of his large hands to her face, brushing her hair back off her forehead. Sandor can tell she’s lying, but not about what. Sansa watches him war inside of himself, between demanding an answer and letting her keep whatever was bothering her inside until she wanted to tell him.  
  
  
She sighs, not making him battle himself for long. She lifts up a hand to cup his face, uses her other arm to push herself up so that she’s sitting. Sansa brings their lips together, nothing more than a mere brush. Soft, but joining.   
  
  
Sandor looks at her, worried and confused, hands skirting up and down the sides of her spine.   
  
  
She smiles tremulously. “I’m—I’m pregnant.”   
  
  
She tries to keep her smile from breaking as she watches a myriad of emotions pass over his face—something like fear and something like hope and something like love—before he wraps his arms around her, not as tightly as usual, as if he is afraid of hurting their child already even while he or she is still burrowed deep inside of her, and presses his face into her neck.   
  
  
Sansa exhales, relieved, pushing her hands into his hair, breathing in his scent, so much better in person than trying to sleep with her face in his pillow. And then she laughs. “I was worried.”  
  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, and then kisses her neck. They don’t need to talk about their faults anymore. They only accept them.  
  
  
“No,” Sansa says, kissing the side of his head. “We just should have discussed babies before they became a possibility. All the sex, you know. Things happen.”  
  
  
He rumbles a laugh, and then they are quiet for a couple long, blissful minutes. He lays her back against the pillows, and Sansa giggles when his rough, calloused hands push up the hemline of her shirt up to the bottom of her sore breasts.   
  
  
“How... how far along...?” he asks, thumbs stroking the plane of her stomach.  
  
  
Sansa smiles, wiping away an errant tear. Oh, to be this happy, and to try and keep the thought of someone taking it away from them out of her head. They are safe here. Their child will be safe here. He’ll protect them, and she’ll protect them. And they’ll protect the baby. “  
  
  
“Four or five weeks, I think,” she answers, unable to stave off the tears.   
  
  
Sandor smiles, imagining her in the coming months, how her belly will curve under his palm and they’ll be able to feel the child kick and move. And maybe they’ll lie in bed together on lazy Sunday mornings and she’ll let him listen to her stomach for hours.   
  
  
“Hi.” His voice is low and rumbling and Sansa wants to wrap up the madness of the fact that Sandor Clegane is talking to her stomach, to their child, and is almost crying from happiness and she is crying from happiness and put it in an envelope and mail it to the Lannisters to see in their federal jail cells.   
  
  
“Baby’s not even a baby yet,” Sansa says with a laugh as her husband presses kisses low on her abdomen, his stubble rough against her sensitive skin. “Baby is just past the blastocyst stage, barely the size of a sesame seed. Cell differentiation has just begun, and—“  
  
  
“She might hear you, you know.” He says, trying to look affronted, fingers moving slowly, tracing loving circles now. “Don’t listen to your mother, she’s crazy.”  
  
  
“I did some googling, I like to know these things,” Sansa retorts, ruffling his hair. “And you don’t know it’s a girl.”  
  
  
“I know it’s a girl,” he says with a nod.   
  
  
“Can I tell people that big, mean Sandor Clegane wants a baby girl?” she asks, smirking. But she imagines him with a little dark-haired girl with Tully blue eyes, swinging her up on his broad shoulders, driving her to swim practice in the pick-up, cradling her in his arms, snarling at her boyfriends. Yes, Sandor Clegane would make a good father of daughters. Like her own father had been.  
  
  
He snorts. “They won’t believe you.”  
  
  
No, she thinks. Thinks back a few years, thinks about the Lannisters. No they wouldn’t.  
  
  
And then she stops thinking about the Lannisters.  
  
  
After all, they’re having a baby. 


End file.
